Читать книгу Matched - Kelli Ireland - Страница 12

ISAAC LOOKED UP as the chair opposite him was pulled away from the table. A woman in a dark green dress sank onto the seat with incredible grace, setting her clutch in her lap before crossing her legs in a controlled move that drew his attention. His gaze rested on the dress’s short hem before he realized that her legs were bare. In October.

Isaac shifted slightly in his seat. He had always appreciated the way women’s bodies appeared deceptively softer, their more subtly sculpted lines and lithe forms imbued with inherent grace. And when a woman worked to enhance those fine lines and fluid form? He appreciated it all the more. Without a doubt, the woman who had taken a seat across from him put in more than sufficient time to hone her form. She’d done such a magnificent job that, embarrassingly, Isaac found himself staring.

Appreciating.

Craving.

The woman began tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the small bag in her lap. “Let me know when you’re done with the physical assessment. The timer on our little meeting starts in—” she twisted in her chair, then twisted back “—about three minutes.”

“Plenty of time, then.”

“Time for...”

“Surely you’ve heard how important first impressions are.”

Her finger—the one tap-tap-tapping her handbag—went still. “And what, exactly, are you doing to secure that all-important first impression?”

“I’m sitting here trying not to intimidate you.”

She laughed then, the sound as promising as room-temperature bourbon poured over chilled whiskey stones.

“Do that again,” he said quietly, his gaze hovering at the highest point of the slit in the dress, the one that exposed a thin strip of smooth skin on the outside of her upper thigh.

“Do what again?” she asked in that sin-and-redemption voice.

“Laugh.”

“Make me.”

Isaac leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Who was she, this stranger, that she thought she stood a chance in hell of ordering him to do anything at all?

Had the dress she was wearing been displayed in a museum, it would have been called “Temptation in Textiles.” And with just cause. It was cut so that it showcased her best physical assets—long legs, trim waist, pert breasts, pale skin and that elegant neck, half-hidden by the mass of loosely curled mahogany hair. That strong jaw.

He liked defined characteristics in a woman—knew men who much preferred their women softer, both in form and personality. Not him. As far as Isaac was concerned, strength was strength. And strength trumped softness each and every time.

Whoever this woman was, she understood the value of strength.

But she didn’t realize whom she was facing off with.

He tried to decide what color he’d call her skin. From that glimpse of thigh to the line of her jaw, the tone was that of diluted honey—warm but not quite tan. The sun would give her more warmth if she spent much time outdoors. But he knew she didn’t. The finger that had tapped her bag was too smooth, unblemished, to belong to someone who did anything outside besides, perhaps, run.

Another look at her legs and, yes, she was a runner.

She smiled, and his attention shifted to her lips.

Lush but not bee-stung. Not thin. Lips that framed a decidedly smart mouth.

For now, that was amusing. And now was all they’d have. He glanced at the meeting timer. Forty-three minutes.

“If you’re bored, you could try conversation. It’s a universally accepted means of passing the time.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Are you always so...”

“Quick-witted?” she offered.

“Snarky.”

She shrugged. “Semantics.”

He quieted, waiting to see what she would add in the hanging silence.

She stared at him, also waiting on...something. What? Conversation? Yet the longer they sat there, the more clear it became that she might just be able to wait him out.

Seconds passed, crossing the one-minute mark and dragging on before she couldn’t stand the building tension and broke the silence.

“Okay,” she said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table, her breasts pressed together by her biceps so that her cleavage nearly doubled. “I’ll get the ball rolling. What’s your name?”

He rose.

She followed suit.

He held out a hand.

She stared at it for a moment and then offered her own hand in return.

A jolt of awareness passed through him not unlike a mild electrical shock. “I’m Isaac Miller.”

“Rachel Stephens.”

“And what do you do for a living, Ms. Stephens?”

“Please, call me Rachel.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. “Isaac.”

“I’m a lawyer... Isaac.”

He sank back into his seat and folded his hands across his abdomen. “You’re a rare woman, Rachel.”

“And how did you come to that determination in under five minutes?” There was a smile hidden in the question as she sat down.

“You’re an attorney.”

“Yes.”

“Are you successful?”

“Each person measures success against different markers.”

“By your own, then.”

She lifted one shoulder, her head tilting to the side as she considered him. “By my measure? Yes. But there are still mountains to climb and glass ceilings to shatter.”

He nodded in agreement. “You’ll get there. You clearly have a mind that complements your appearance.”

“I look smart?” Surprise played through her wide gaze.

He fought the urge to smile. Letting go of his iron control now wouldn’t do. But she deserved clarification. “You look absolutely stunning, to be frank. What I meant was that your mind seems as attractive as your—”

“My body,” she said, surprising him.

He had wanted to say “body,” but that wasn’t acceptable. Not by his or society’s standards.

“Admit it,” she teased. “That’s what you were going to say, but you backed yourself into a conversational corner.”

“Certainly...not.” One corner of his mouth turned up against his will when Rachel laughed again. The sound shot through him, landing at the base of his spine, making his balls draw up tight.

She leaned forward and, in a stage whisper, said, “That was a pathetic cover.”

“It was,” he admitted. Curiosity rarely provoked him to action, but tonight it won over his typically analytical approach. “May I ask you something, Rachel?”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” she countered. When he paused, she pressed. “I’m looking for honesty, Isaac. Not wordplay.”

He sat back in his seat. A woman who openly asked for honesty...and, he believed, meant it. Isaac’s curiosity was more piqued than ever.

“Fine. Long story short, I wasn’t supposed to be a candidate, but I came tonight to appease the app developer.”

“Who is he to you?”

“A...client.” Isaac rolled his shoulders. She didn’t need to know who Jonathan was. It wasn’t relevant.

“A client.” She tilted her head to one side, considering him. “And what is it you do, Isaac?”

“I work with a capital-investment firm.”

“So your company bankrolls ideas and software or software applications other people come up with and then you...what? How do you get back your initial investment?”

“We essentially buy into whatever the idea or product is and, in exchange for start-up funding, we become part owners in the new venture. If that venture is successful, my firm is paid something equivalent to dividends on that success.”

“So you help people get started and then ride their coattails indefinitely.” She gave him an innocent look that forewarned him that whatever came next would be sharp. Or clever. Perhaps both. “Sounds a bit like a high-end pyramid scheme.”

Both.

And it fascinated him. Here sat a woman who didn’t stroke his ego. A woman comfortable in her skin. A woman who knew her worth. He hadn’t experienced anyone like her before. Similar, but no one had ever possessed the entire package—the one that made up his perfect woman. But here she sat, wearing confidence like a cloak, sexuality like stilettos, and wielded her curiosity like a sword.

He would have to mind himself. Because by doing nothing more than being true to herself, Rachel Stephens threatened Isaac’s vow to get in and out of tonight’s social experiment without making a connection.

The alarm sounded, signaling they had just fifteen minutes before their time together reached its scheduled end.

Realization that this meeting was nearly over moved Isaac to act, something he never did without weighing the consequences, measuring pros and cons. Not now, though. Now? He had to admit he wasn’t ready to walk away from this woman, and he’d do whatever he had to do to ensure their time together wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

Whatever he did, he had to figure out what the hell was happening between them.

* * *

Anticipation hummed along every nerve in Rachel’s body, but the feeling was, without a doubt, most concentrated in the most inconvenient places. The back of her neck. Her breasts. The lowest part of her pelvis. Her entire sex. There was no denying that Isaac Miller scored one hundred percent when graded against the Mr. Right Now trifecta scorecard.

She could’ve added a few extra attributes—maybe humility or even... Oh, who cared. Nothing so mundane would really matter when it came down to brass tacks. Or silk sheets.

So, with fifteen minutes left in the evening, she had to admit that she had found a man who qualified as Mr. Right Now. And she owed herself a win.

That meant figuring out if Isaac was interested in her before the final bell rang and, if he was, how to get things to go down the path that ended with rumpled sheets and a little pillow talk prior to saying their farewells.

But before she could test the waters, he parked his elbows on the table and pressed his hands together, almost as if he was praying. Dark blue eyes that had been casually guarded all night were suddenly serious. “How confident are you in your poker face?”

“Very,” she replied without even a moment’s hesitation. “I’d be a pretty shitty lawyer if my face gave away everything I was thinking.”

“Do you consider yourself a good lawyer?”

“I do.” She offered no apology for her surety. Why should she? Then an idea struck. Scooting forward until she sat on the edge of her seat, she crossed her arms and placed them on the table. “What about you, Isaac? Are you any good at your job?”

“The best.”

She’d anticipated as much.

Putting her weight on her elbows, she decided to test the waters. “And how’s your poker face?” She spoke softly so that he’d have to either lean forward to hear her or ask her to speak up. Her gut said that if he was into her, he’d lean in. If he wasn’t, he’d ask her to repeat what she’d said.

He leaned in on the first word.

Score one for intuition.

“Also the best.”

“Are you willing to make a little wager, maybe see which one of us possesses the superior poker face?”

“Perhaps.” He blinked slowly, the heat in his gaze making her clench her thighs. And when he next spoke, she found herself leaning forward to hear him. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“A game.” God, was that breathy voice actually hers? “Seven-card stud. One round. Winner takes all.”

“What’s the prize?”

The urge to put herself out there overruled her common sense and any reservations she’d held on to up until that point. “One night.” She looked down, gauged her timing, then slowly looked up. Met his blazing gaze, licked her lips and lowered her voice even further. “Together. No strings. No regrets.”

His gaze locked on the bare skin of her thigh and lingered longer than could be deemed polite. She tapped the table and his attention snapped back to her.

“Deal.”

A sharp thrill coursed through her and she rose from her seat. Isaac reclined and hooked an arm over the chair back, looking up at her. “I don’t suppose you have a deck of cards handy, do you?”

“What, you don’t keep a set on hand for situations just like this?”

“My spare is in my other suit jacket.”

“Of course.” She swept low and retrieved her clutch and then, with all the casualness she could muster, she inclined her head toward the front door. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

Her stomach somersaulted, rolling over and over before coming to a shaky halt. Thank God it was right side up.

This was the moment when she had to decide. Be bold and brazen, or reserved and, likely, peppered with regret come dawn.

“Bold,” she said so softly that Isaac’s attention focused on her mouth and he seemed to be trying to read her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Rachel closed her eyes, searched and found her emotional center and whispered a small promise to never again forget who she was, no matter what happened in the next thirty seconds.

She opened her eyes, held out her hand and said, “What do you say we get out of here and find a deck of cards?”